I sat waiting for it with my eyes closed. I heard the music from upstairs mix with the sounds of my own music. I chewed the ends of my mustache and saw the pattern of grass and how it looked after it was cut. I sat waiting for it to come, I scanned my whole life, feeling for it the way a blind man touches the features on someone else’s face…trying to see it with the mind. I wondered if I would ever really do it. I searched my heart for the answer, stepping outside of myself as a judge prepares his verdict. And I did not know in my own heart if I really had the nerve. The desire to create requires a full-body commitment from the head to the heart with a good amount of guts to combine them all and then…

for what?

For all.

Categories: identity, musings, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, existentialism, journal writing, prose, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer